ambulance went past along the main road, siren wailing.
âYou wouldnât know, I suppose, Mrs Martin, where your husband went to after heâd locked Sasha in her room?â
âWasnât here when I got back, I know that.â
âAnd this was when?â
âEleven, eleven thirty.â
âAnd you wouldnât have any idea where he might have been?â
âThe pub, I dare say. Where he usually went off to when he was in one of his moods. And when he wasnât.â
âAny pub in particular?â
âFour Hands, most likely. Down Lewisham. Landlord has a lock-in most nights.â
âAnd thatâs where you think he was?â
âGood a guess as any. Gone three in the morning time he got home, anyway. Hammered didnât come into it.â
âMr Martin,â Karen said, âyouâre expecting him home this evening?â
âNot âless heâs changed his plans.â
âWhich are?â
âOver in Tallinn, isnât he?â
âEstonia?â
âLast time I looked.â
âStag do?â Costello suggested.
âBusiness.â
âSo when are you expecting him?â Karen asked.
âCouple of days, maybe three.â
âOnly weâll need to talk to him.â
âWhat for?â
âHear his version of Sashaâs story. Confirm his whereabouts, the night Petru Andronic died.â
âYou donât think he had anything to do with that? Terry? You must be jokinâ.â
âNormal procedure, Mrs Martin, thatâs all.â
âHeâll not like it.â
âIâm afraid thatâs too bad.â Karen placed one of her cards on the table. âAsk him to contact this number as soon as he returns. Weâll need to see you as well, Sasha. Make a statement, what youâve just told us.â
âDo I have to?â
âI think so. Best to get it all clear once and for all. Perhaps you could bring her in, Mrs Martin? Tomorrow around ten thirty?â
Fay Martinâs glare followed them all the way to the door.
Outside, the air bit cold and Karen shivered. Tim Costello pulled his coat collar up against his neck.
ââHeâdâve hurt him, I know he would,â is that what she said?â
Karen nodded. ââHurt him bad.ââ
âAnd then what was it? Before he went out? âThatâs an end to it.ââ
âThatâs what she said.â
âOut of the mouths â¦â
âI know.â Karen glanced back at the house, silhouette at one of the upstairs windows, Fay Martin looking down. âYou fancy a drink,â she said, âbefore we head back?â
âThe Four Hands?â
âWhy not?â
11
Over the sea the sky loomed unnaturally dark. Midday, near as made no difference. A near complete absence of light. Cordon walked back down the hill, air heavy like a coat about his shoulders. Indoors, he set coffee on the stove to heat, picked a CD from the small pile on the floor and set it in place. Selected track three, early January, 1945: way, way before he was born.
The piece starts off with an easy swing, relaxed, a wash of cymbals behind the horns; and then, without warning, thirty seconds in, the trumpet unleashes itself into a blistering run, a chorus torn from another place, a world moved on. After that â an anti-climax, how could it be anything else? â the trombone and then the saxophone take their own pedestrian time, the sax straining towards the end, wanting more without seemingly knowing how. Only in the closing bars do we hear the trumpet clearly again, skittering irrepressibly around the final statement of the theme â puckish â up and down and in between.
âGood Baitâ. Dizzy Gillespie All Stars: New York City, 9 January.
Cordon poured the coffee, added milk.
Set the track to play again.
Concentrated on the sound.
A couple of days now since he had